


Like a Pair of Pants

by Backwoulds



Series: Blood On My Name [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester has bedhead, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mild Blood, One Shot, Ouch, POV Second Person, Protective Dean Winchester, Reader-Insert, Sleeping Winchesters, sneaky reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 11:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10943526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwoulds/pseuds/Backwoulds
Summary: Int. Motel Room - Night. Reader decides to take out a werewolf on her own without telling the Winchesters.(One-shot, second-person. Short little bunny that escaped from my brain in the shower today.)





	Like a Pair of Pants

Your body is a solid ache. You grit your teeth together in spite of the headache trying to claw its way out of your eye sockets and jam the key into the motel room lock. Of course this isn't the sort of place that has updated to key cards; that would be too easy. You rest your forehead against the doorjamb and fumble with the knob, your fingers adamantly refusing to cooperate enough to turn the lock and let you into the damn room.

You let your hand drop to your side and breathe slowly for a moment. There's no sound from the other side of the door; the boys must still be asleep. You're both thankful and irritated—irritated, because you're tired of trying to get this dumbass door to open on your own. Thankful, because you don't want to deal with a Winchester Lecture right now about being stupid enough to sneak off by yourself to take out a werewolf this close to the full moon. The shooting pain in your jaw and the taste of blood in your mouth is plenty good chastisement at the moment, thank you very much.

You inhale sharply through your nose and decide give the lock one last try. If it doesn't open this time, you'll just sleep in your truck tonight and shower the blood and grime off in the morning. Thankfully, you feel the tumblers give way, and the knob turns easily in your hand. You breathe a sigh of relief and nudge the door open, only stopping for a moment to curse yourself when you realize you've been turning the key the wrong way this entire time. You push the thought that you might have a concussion out of your mind, because you're too tired to even consider not falling asleep right now. Besides, if you do have one and it kills you, you probably won't be dead long enough to enjoy it given your group's track record.

You slink quietly into the room and are immediately greeted by the heavy breathing sounds of sleep. The boys are two motionless lumps on the room's double beds. It's too dark to see much, but you'd recognize their sleeping forms anywhere. Sam's giant feet hang precariously off the edge of the bed closest to you. Dean sleeps on his stomach on the other bed, his right hand tucked under his pillow. They're both just on the verge of snoring, but you don't mind it at all. It's one of the most relaxing sounds in the world to you outside of the purr of the Impala's engine on a long drive. It's a sound that means safety. More importantly, it's a sound that means home.

The door closes softly behind you. You're careful to turn all the locks and slide the chain into place before you tiptoe to the couch where you're supposed to be sleeping. Both of the boys tried to take the sofa so you could have a bed, but you wouldn't hear of it. You fit better on the couch than either of them do. Besides, you'd been planning to sneak out after they fell asleep since before you checked in; taking a bed from one of them on top of that was just this side of unforgivable. Your blankets are tangled in a heap where your feet are supposed to be. Wordlessly, you walk past them and into the bathroom. No use getting blood all over everything. You make sure the door is shut and locked before you turn on the light.

Your reflection in the mirror nearly shocks you out of your pain. You had a feeling you looked like crap, but damn. Your hair is a matted mess on your head. Your lower lip is swollen enough to make you look like Sylvester Stallone. You have a black eye and a bloody nose, and you're pretty sure you can see the beginnings of other bruises starting to blossom on your neck and shoulders. You might look like a corpse if it weren't for the healthy range of colors all over your face.

You're damn lucky you escaped without being bitten, and more than a little grateful that scratches can't spread lycanthropy. You lift the stiffening, blood-soaked tail of your jacket and peel the ruined flannel underneath off your skin. Three jagged cuts decorate your side and dip neatly below the waistband of your jeans. That'll be a fun one to explain tomorrow. Hopefully you won't need stitches. The gashes don't look half as bad as they did when you collapsed in the Ford's driver's seat forty minutes ago. That blood was all spectacle, it seems. All flash and no substance. You drop the shirts and wince as the weight of them hits the open wounds.

Maybe not.

You take in the rest of your injuries and start cataloguing them for later. You know from experience which ones will take the longest to heal, and which ones will need the most explaining in the morning. Those claw marks aren't going to be easy to hide, that's for sure, and they're not going to be easy to lie about. Maybe, if you're lucky, the three of you will take on some other clawed monster tomorrow and you can blame it on the new baddie. You chuckle a little at the thought before shedding your clothes and stepping into the empty shower.

You turn on the water and ease into the stream when it starts. It's chilly at first, but the cuts and bruises seem to appreciate that. As the water heats up, your injuries start singing. The white tub swirls red with blood as it washes off your skin down the drain. You grab a bar of hotel soap (still wet from when one of the boys used it earlier) and gingerly rub it across your chest and stomach. You glance longingly at the washcloth, but realize two things: 1. It's white, and those bloodstains would definitely attract attention tomorrow; and 2. Your skin is way too sensitive for scrubbing at the moment. You sigh and turn around to wet your hair. You probably smell like werewolf, whatever that smells like. You'd prefer to smell like Sam's fancy shampoo, but he apparently hasn't unpacked it yet. You'll settle for the hotel brand tonight as long as it gets you clean.

You stay under the stream for what feels like decades before the hot water finally runs out. It's lukewarm by the time you turn it off, which is a little odd given the late hour. What kind of motel doesn't have the water heater capacity to keep the showers hot in the middle of the night? The sort of hotel you stay at, apparently. Grumbling, you grab two towels from the rack, wrapping the drier one around your body and the damper one around your hair.

You take another look in the mirror and are pleased to discover you look much better than you did before. You still look like you went a few rounds with Apollo Creed, but at least now you look like you survived it. Satisfied, you turn out the light, unlock the door, and step back into the motel room.

You expect to see your two sleeping lumps when your eyes sweep the room, but only one of them is where it's supposed to be. Sam and his giant feet are right where you left them. Dean, on the other hand, has disappeared.

Scratch that. Dean, you see as you turn to the couch, is sitting where you're supposed to be sleeping, his face framed by a glorious mess of bedhead. It's too dark to tell whether he looks pissed or not.

“Couldn't sleep?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He glances toward Sammy, who responds with an exhale somewhere between a sigh and a snort but otherwise doesn't stir.

You shake your head and walk toward him, careful not to move like you're in pain. As far as you know, the shower woke him up and he has no idea what you've been doing. “No,” you say, shaking your hair free from the towel and combing it out with your fingers. Keeping it casual. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. “Thought a shower might help put me out.”

“Yeah, nothing like a hot shower after sneaking out alone to hunt a werewolf, huh?” You freeze. Dean's voice isn't pleasant. You risk a glance at his face and can tell he's glowering at you even in the dark.

Your mind races as you try to figure out how to weasel you way out of this one. Lying comes easy to you; it comes easy to all three of you. You do it so often, it's second nature at this point. You're FBI agents, you're medical examiners, you're fine when your worlds are falling apart. One right after another. After a while, the lies start to fit like a really comfy pair of pants. But you're not wearing pants right now, and you don't really feel like lying this time. You sigh and resign yourself to the inevitable lecture, dropping to the couch next to Dean, whose body is still warm with sleep.

Your eyes finally adjust to the darkness and you shift to meet his gaze. “Okay, let me have it, coach.”

He tenses next to you. His jaw tightens in a move that's painfully familiar. “Damn it, you could have gotten yourself killed going after that thing by yourself. Or worse—turned!” His voice raises on the last word and Sam makes a noise in the corner. Dean dips his head and drops back to a whisper. “What the hell were you thinking?” He's determined not to wake Sammy up. No reason for all three of you to lose sleep, you guess.

“Look,” you start, leaning into him and pulling the towel tighter around you like a security blanket. With anybody else, you'd be clutching it to your chest out of some kind of upended modesty, but the fact that you're nearly naked doesn't even cross your mind with Dean. You've been caught like a kid with her hand in a cookie jar. The only thing you hate more than getting filleted by werewolves is being chewed out by the people you care about for your own carelessness. Damn it, you really shouldn't have taken that shower.

“I know it was stupid, Dean,” you explain, “but it was also the only way to get the son of a bitch. He wasn't expecting it. If we'd waited until tomorrow like we'd planned, he would have been ready for us, or he would have blown town like he's done the last three times we had him in our sights.”

It's Dean's turn to sigh. He breathes heavily and drops his head between his knees, rubbing his face with his hands. He knows, on some level, that you're right. Hitting him tonight was the right move. Hitting him alone, however, was not. “You shouldn't have done it alone,” he protests, but the words are muffled and there's barely any heart in them. He ruffles his hair in frustration. “Do you have any idea what we would have done if—” He can't bring himself to say the words, but you feel them punch you right in the gut all the same.

You drop your gaze and stare guiltily at your hands. “I'm sorry.” You want to tell him that you're fine, that he doesn't have to be upset because nothing happened to you, but you realize that's not the point. You've all lost people who thought they would be fine, and it isn't something any of you were going to get over any time soon. As if to make a point, the claw marks pick that moment to remind you that they're there. The pain flashes through your side, hot and unforgiving. You make a hissing sound and fold in on yourself until the moment passes.

Dean's head is up in an instant. He's staring at you with so much concern in his eyes you're afraid his head might explode with worry. “What the hell happened to you?” You're about to laugh at the fact that even his whispers sound gruff when you remember that not only are you in pain, you're also in a significant amount trouble, and that perhaps giggling would not be a recommended course of action just now. Still, you crack a smile, which is enough to make Dean stare at you like maybe you've finally lost your mind.

“Bastard clawed me something fierce,” you tell him. You see the look on his face and quickly add, “He didn't bite me, I swear.”

“You need stitches?” Dean asks, searching your face.

You shake your head again. “No, no stitches. Just stings like a bitch.” You smile again, but it's more of a smirk the way your mouth is swollen. “Why, you hoping to get a look under this towel, Winchester?”

Dean's lip curls up in disgust and he moves away from you. “Dude.”

You laugh, and finally he breaks and laughs too. You're both careful to stay quiet. It's a miracle Sam's slept through all of this, but the big lug put in some serious legwork tracking down the werewolf and getting his ass thoroughly kicked by a local biker gang this afternoon. You'll be surprised if he's up before noon tomorrow. Or you would be, anyway, if you had any plans to be awake before sundown. The way your body is screaming right now, you could stand to go a few rounds with the Sandman yourself.

You turn your attention from Sam back to Dean. He's staring at you with a mix of anger and adoration on his face, and you realize it's a look you've seen thousands of times from your father. It's comforting in the way the boys' sleep sounds are comforting. Home. You're home.

You gently rock your shoulder against Dean's and bang your knee against his leg. “I really am sorry,” you say, and you mean it.

“I know, kid,” he replies, rocking back against you. “And I know you'd do the same dumbass thing all over again if it came down to it.”

“Damn straight,” you agree, beaming. “I learned from the best.”

Dean grins and looks down at his feet sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess you did.”

“Now get the hell off my couch and go back to sleep.”

Dean chuckles and pushes himself to a standing position. He tousles your wet hair before shuffling back to bed and climbing under the covers. Within a few minutes, he's back to being the sleeping blanket-lump he was when you first came back to the motel. You watch him sleep for a little while, ignoring the pains that are getting steadily worse as your body struggles to start knitting itself back together.

You look at Sam again and it dawns on you that Dean has no plans to tell him what happened. As far as Sam knows, nothing happened tonight. Dean is going to keep your secret. You're not sure how you feel about that, but it's probably for the best. The lies fit like a comfy pair of pants, after all.

You pull on a nightshirt and a pair of panties and burrow back into your blankets. The damp towel can wait on the floor until morning.  
  
The sound of the boys' breathing is the last thing you hear before you're dragged down into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
